A Pox on Both Your Houses!
by Nova-chan
Summary: Prompt from livejournal. The prompter wanted a sick five-year-old Sherlock being taken care of by brother Mycroft.


Mycroft was studying, his favorite activity on Saturday mornings. Mummy was out shopping and Father was on a business trip. Mycroft had the house practically to himself, to do as he pleased and to read and write in relative peace. So long as _that child_ kept himself entertained and out of the way…

"Myyyyycrooooooft!" came the whining, fatalistic cry.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Sherlock, I am busy! I'm not coming in there to see what you've done. If you need something, come in here," he instructed, leaning over his work more fervently than ever.

A dramatic cough echoed from the other room. "But I don't feel good," Sherlock moaned.

"But you feel fine enough to shout? How peculiar," Mycroft groused. He stared at his door, wondering if his little brother was going to force him out of his undisturbed brainstorm sanctuary.

Suddenly, Sherlock screamed, a sharp, shrill noise. "Mycroft, help!" he yelped. "I'm a mu-tant!"

_Dear god_ Mycroft said to himself, his annoyance mounting. He went to check on the wailing child, just so that he would have immunity from parental questioning should a repeat of two weekends ago be occurring. Mycroft would never forget the scowl on his mother's face when she had marched him into Sherlock's bedroom where the five year old was sitting amongst a mound of skewered throw pillows. Not that Mycroft could have prevented Sherlock from destroying the house. Mummy just would have liked for him to be knowledgeable about his little brother's endeavors to wreak havoc.

Mycroft went into Sherlock's room at the opposite end of the hallway. He wasn't fully expecting to see the child laid up in bed, blankets pulled up to his neck. Perhaps he was truly ill.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said, nearing the bed. "What's the matter?"

Sherlock's eyes were wide and frightened. "Mycroft, I'm a monster!" he cried, showing his arm. Mycroft looked at the skinny pale arm, which was now covered in tiny bumps. He pulled down the blankets to reveal his brother's chest, marred by the same red bumps. There were a few on his face too, now that he looked more closely.

Mycroft hummed in recognition. "It's varicella," he said.

"Aaaaaaah!" Sherlock wailed.

"Shh, shh," Mycroft chided. "It's just chicken pox, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked in evaluation. "Jimmy Forrester had to go home early last week because he had chicken pox. Before that he borrowed my coat without asking," he remembered. "He hasn't come back to school yet, and Allison said he died! Am I going to die?"

Mycroft sighed. "Chicken pox is not going to kill you, Sherlock," he said, flatly. "Jimmy Forrester is just recovering at home so he won't infect anyone else with his nasty little bumps."

Sherlock scratched at his arm thoughtfully. "Can I have some soup?"

"Don't scratch it, Sherlock," Mycroft warned. He managed to look even more annoyed at his little brother. "What kind of soup do you want?" He had better be knighted for this.

Sherlock scratched his neck. "Chicken," he said.

"Stop scratching, Sherlock," Mycroft repeated. "You're going to make it worse."

"But it itches," Sherlock whined.

Mycroft glared at him. "Stop scratching. I'm going to get your soup. I'll get you some lotion for the itching. Then I want you to go to sleep!"

Sherlock shot out of the bed like an itchy little rocket. "I'll come with you!" he announced.

"Fine," Mycroft growled. "But after you have your soup, you're going to bed."

Sherlock coughed and followed his brother out of the room, scratching his chest behind Mycroft's back.

/

Sherlock picked moodily at the soup that Mycroft had generously heated up for him. Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table in agitation. Finally, Sherlock looked up at him. "I don't feel hungry," he admitted.

"Fine," said Mycroft. "Back to bed."

"Can't I go watch telly?" Sherlock pouted, his eyes going impossibly huge and irresistible to most people affected by the pathetic desires of children.

But Mycroft was not affected or amused. "To bed, Sherlock. I'll bring up the calamine lotion."

Sherlock pushed away from the table with a pout.

A few minutes later, Mycroft peeked into Sherlock's bedroom to see his younger brother setting up his toy animals on the floor. Mycroft noticed casually that Sherlock was arranging them by taxonomic order.

"Sit in the bed, Sherlock," Mycroft said, interrupting. "You need to put on this lotion so you'll stop scratching those. You know it makes them spread when you scratch them."

Sherlock looked uncertain of this fact, but climbed into his bed anyway. Mycroft squeezed out a small amount of the calamine into his hand and rubbed it on his brother's chest.

Sherlock hissed and backed away from Mycroft's hand. "It's cold!" he cried.

"It won't be so cold once you rub it in," Mycroft answered, squirting more of the lotion onto Sherlock's arms and neck.

Sherlock rubbed the smelly lotion into his skin thoroughly. He paused for about a second before he began scratching furiously. "It itches _more!_ " he exclaimed.

"It will itch for a while until the lotion has dissolved into your skin," Mycroft said, sighing deeply. "Stop it!" He briefly arrested his brother's wrists with his stronger hands. Sherlock's lip wibbled pathetically.

Mycroft got up and went over to the closet, grabbing a couple of Sherlock's winter mittens. He left the room briefly to get something else out of the storage closet. When Sherlock saw the masking tape in his brother's hand, he immediately knew what was going on.

He scooted up against the bed frame defensively, scratching in renewed vigor. "Just let me scratch it a little more…" he begged.

Mycroft was having none of that. He put the mittens on Sherlock's hands and taped them firmly in place, rendering the child unable to scratch the bumps any longer.

Sherlock flopped dramatically across his bed. "Myyyyyyyycroft," he whined.

"Hush or I'll tape over your mouth and leave you here," Mycroft threatened. It wouldn't be the first time he had resorted to such methods to achieve silence.

Sherlock peeped and then lay quietly on the bed.

Mycroft nodded approvingly and began to leave the room before Sherlock's little voice halted him. "Mycroft, can I have some more soup?"

If Mycroft were a volcano, he would have erupted. But, since he was a person, he bitterly went downstairs to warm up some more soup. 


End file.
